


The Diabolical Device Affair

by selyndae



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evil Thrush scientist wants revenge for having not been taken seriously.  Naturally our heroes are sent in to stop him!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diabolical Device Affair

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This has been listed under general since the 'real' category doesn't exist; this is more of a "slashy gen" story or a "gen slash" story depending on the glasses you're wearing at the time...
> 
> (Down the Chimney 6 Challenge on MUNCLE for Epicycles using the delightful prompts of: Getting lost, Japan, and Return of an old villain!)

**PROLOGUE**

The device stood on the raised platform, gleaming with polished metal, cathode tubes and tiny blinking lights—all shiny, bright and new. It was a radical departure from the standard engineering and electronic practices of the day, standing proudly alone. Even to the naked eye it was an innovative and fresh new design. Technicians carefully went over the checklists, making sure everything was properly set leaving nothing to chance. It had been years in the planning, but at last it was finally ready for the big unveiling.

The past few years had been extremely hard on the Thrush official. Life in a maximum security prison, even when run by wardens with naïve ideals of ‘benevolence’ had taken a serious toll. His ‘ageless’ genetics did not help him; he looked at least ten years older since his incarceration. His humiliating downfall within the Thrush Hierarchy had rankled sorely.

Well, never mind about that. U.N.C.L.E. would pay and pay dearly! His ingrained sense of honor would allow nothing less... 

 

**ACT I: The Best-Laid Plans...**

Sitting beneath the small cantilevered rock while under gunfire gave Illya Kuryakin plenty of time to think. Given the circumstances, one wouldn’t normally imagine this to be the case, but since he was out of ammunition and had been unable to establish contact with Napoleon or the rest of the team since late yesterday afternoon, thinking was all he _could_ do.

Of course, he could always dwell on how miserably he’d failed—completely unable to even find the satrap headquarters, let alone infiltrate it and complete his assignment.

He sighed, his pessimism firmly in place. Napoleon was the lucky one in this partnership while his luck was, in a word, awful! Squinting up at the dark overcast sky, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.

The final humiliation was that on top of everything else he was _lost!_ He, Illya Kuryakin, lost! How ludicrous. 

The plan had been to parachute in a few miles from the target area, sneak inside, get the intelligence then get out. Simple! The tricky air currents made this very difficult but they had an excellent and gifted pilot. Unfortunately, as the plane was coming in for the final run they’d been spotted forcing the pilot to do some desperate evasive maneuvering. Illya had poured out of the plane somewhat unceremoniously in one of the sudden altitude shifts making it virtually impossible to pinpoint his location; he could be anywhere from ten to a hundred miles from his original target.

He had been dimly aware of the plane crashing during his frantic attempts to land safely and was fortunate to have only suffered a wrenched shoulder; the ground had been much closer than he’d originally supposed. He only hoped the others had landed safely…

Trying to shift to a more comfortable position beneath the relentless gunfire, he sighed again. Could anything _else_ go wrong?

Oops! Never, _ever_ tempt the fates… Now it was raining... hard!

Great. Just what he needed. A deluge. No—make that a cold deluge.

Well, at least the gunfire seems to have died down.

Maybe, just maybe¸ he could crawl away, possibly even salvage the—

A dreaded prickling along his neck—not the rain this time—caused Illya to freeze. He stopped abruptly giving into the inevitable as he realized the enemy had found him With a sigh, he stood up and placed both hands on top of his head in surrender (ignoring the sharp pains from his shoulder) as the floodlights spotlighted his position…

**_36 Hours Earlier..._ **

“Gentlemen, Mr., ah, Harada has escaped.” Mr. Waverly began the briefing as his two top agents were sitting down. Giving the table a spin sent the files around to rest in front of Solo and Kuryakin. Illya slipped on his glasses as he opened the file in front of him. Napoleon scanned swiftly through his as well.

“How did he escape?” Napoleon was curious since the ranking Thrush official had been placed in a well-vetted maximum security installation.

Alexander Waverly gestured irritably with his pipe. “It appears that the verisimilitude of some cleverly forged documents allowed, ah, ‘ringers’ I believe you call it, to infiltrate the prison.”

Illya was shuffling through his papers rapidly. “Sir? There’s some confusion here. In one place it mentions Harada by name. Then, further down it says that they think another Thrush may have escaped but also calls him Harada.” he looked up. “They think another Thrush may have escaped?” Illya’s forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows crawled upwards into his bangs.

Waverly harrumphed slightly, “In view of the extensive damage control we’ve been forced to undertake after the treachery and subsequent demise of Harry Beldon, I daresay this will be happening for quite some time. At least until we’ve managed to sift through the entire business,” he paused, raising his bushy eyebrows in emphasis, “This could take years, unfortunately!” 

Napoleon was leafing through the same area in his own paperwork. “Simon, Simon… hmm...” He tapped his knuckles lightly against his chin as he tried to narrow the possibilities. “We’ve dealt with a number of ‘Simons’ in the past. Um, Simon Sparrow... no, he died when his fiancé shot him in the ‘saucer’. Simon Sweet was killed in that affair with the M-4 explosive. Hmm, let me see, that fake monk, Abbott Simon… he’s still alive, I think…” his voice trailed off as he tried to recall some of the others.

“Yes, Mr. Solo, Thrush’s plot to destroy the Louvre. It would seem that the self-proclaimed ‘Abbot’ Simon, or to use his full name, Simon _Harada_ has also escaped, hence the confusion.” Waverly’s eyebrows beetled together.

“A relative?” Solo was surprised.

The communications panel lit up. Waverly, glancing at the board depressed a lever and picked up the handset. “Waverly here.”

Solo and Kuryakin continued to scan through the documents. As they silently speculated this information with slight gestures and telling glances, they could hear Waverly in the background.

“Yes, I see. Well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped.” A pause, “Yes, thank you for the offer. I’ll let you know.”

The conversation concluded, Waverly glanced down at his own papers for a moment before informing his agents, “Gentlemen, it’s been confirmed that Seiichi and Simon Harada are indeed brothers. Or to be more precise they are half-brothers. They’ve been spotted in Japan in the midst of increased Thrush activity which appears to be centralized around Mt. Tateyama. The reports indicate a new device similar to that Volcanic Activator from three years ago — with some enhancements, if you will.” He paused, “Rumor has it that a new kind of laser scope has been developed and is being combined with the original device.”

Illya, who had just finished reading the section concerning this very thing paled. Looking up through his tinted lenses, he said slowly, “Sir, if this report is even partially accurate, the effects could be completely devastating to almost any point in the world. The data indicates that the device could be ready for testing,” he swallowed hard, “um, this week, Sir.”

Waverly’s grim expression was mirrored by his top enforcement agents. After a moment, he stated succinctly, “Gentlemen, your work is cut out for you.”

 

Back in their shared office, Napoleon and Illya worked out a plan.

“I think we’ll have to go in after dark,” began Napoleon.

“By parachute,” added Illya shortly, “It’s the only way.”

“Hmm, it’ll be a pretty treacherous jump. The air currents alone...” It wasn’t the jump itself that had Napoleon worried—his partner was more than capable in this area. Instead it was the size of the contingent. At least that’s what he hold himself as he impatiently pushed aside the whispering reminder that his partner would be going without _him_ as backup this trip.

Apparently Illya heard those whisperings anyway.

“Napoleon, I’m _fine_ , I have the necessary field certification.” Illya was stubbornly pushing aside his partner’s ‘Mother Hen’ tendencies.

Napoleon scrunched up his face in consternation. “Look, I know you’ve been released from Medical, but I really don’t think Dr. Powers was thinking along the lines of a parachute jump—”

“He gave me _full_ certification,” interrupted Illya, “No restrictions attached, remember?”

Napoleon sighed. As senior agent he had the final say. If he were going along—but he couldn’t, not this time. Although he no longer wore a cast, the doctor had given very strict orders about putting any real strain on the still-healing wrist so a parachute jump was completely out of the question. He’d still be coordinating the mission though. At least the provisionary field certification would allow him that much.

“So,” asked Illya interrupting Solo’s thoughts, “who’s available for this mission?” He began ticking off his fingers. “We’ll need an expert pilot and I think three or four others besides myself for the jump.”

Napoleon tapped his pen thoughtfully against the map. “That’s a pretty small team.”

“I don’t want to risk more than one plane.” Illya thought a moment, “I think a coordinating backup team on the ground should be able to reach here by jeep and be ready to move in when signaled,” he pointed out a spot on the map.

“All right.” Napoleon began mentally sifting through the roster of available agents, both in New York and Tokyo. The pilot would need to be familiar with the area and should definitely come from the local office. The others would have to be exceptional in rough mountainous terrain and should have some basic Japanese language skills. “Mike Fisher is back. He speaks fluent Japanese if I recall, and he’s a crack shot.”

Recalling the tall redhead with his championship climbing skills, Illya nodded. After thinking a moment, he suggested, “Gil Schwendemann might be a good choice as well. He is an expert mountaineer and also speaks a little Japanese.”

“He’s that recent transfer from Berlin isn’t he?”

“Yes, he put himself through college by acting as a tour guide leading hikers through the Alps,” informed Illya.

Now Napoleon remembered; Gil was a small, blond man, around Illya’s size, who didn’t look at all imposing, however he recalled seeing him bench press well over 200 pounds in the gym with ease.

“Sounds like a plan,” agreed Napoleon as he picked up the phone. “Wanda, get me our Tokyo office please.”

In a very short time, two more agents had been added to their team; Gerald Hayashi who could fly anything from a small prop plane to a helicopter to a jet (he’d been a test pilot during his stint in the military) and Kim Ito, a local agent who’d grown up in the Mt. Tateyama area. The coordinating ground team would be selected from the Tokyo office.

**_Back at (relocated) Thrush Eastern Headquarters_ **

Illya Kuryakin was carefully escorted inside the building by two very large guards at his elbows (they looked like Sumo wrestlers, large yet oddly graceful) while others aimed Thrush rifles steadily at his back. Once inside, Illya was grateful for the blast of warm air that greeted him. The chilling rain had soaked him thoroughly making the heat very welcome. He started to shake the hair out of his eyes when a translucent sliding panel opened and a familiar figure stepped out, accompanied by two lovely (but, Illya would guess very deadly) women in traditional Japanese garb carrying fans as they minced along beside their boss.

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, how delightful to see you again.” Mr. Harada gave a slight bow in greeting.

Illya was surprised at the effusive greeting; when he’d last seen the man, Harada had been furious. However, he could play along and be civil as well. He inclined his head slightly. “Mr. Harada, the pleasure is all yours, I assure you.”

A slight frown crossed Harada’s face as he processed the mild barb. He quickly resumed his supercilious smile though. “It appears you are a trifle uncomfortable from the rain, so unseasonable this time of year.” He made a small gesture with one hand. “Perhaps a towel…?”

One of the ladies curtseyed and left. Moments later she reappeared with a thick towel.

“Mr. Fujikawa, if you will do the honors…” Harada was all apologetic smiles as one of the large guards took the towel with a formal nod.

“You are too kind,” Illya’s tone was wary.

The guard began rubbing Illya’s hair vigorously; the first couple of swipes rough but welcome. But almost immediately the towel slipped down over Kuryakin’s face and tightened making it impossible to breath. As he struggled to break free he could dimly hear Harada’s voice in the background.

“Bring him to the control room once you have… subdued him.”

Everything went black.

**_U.N.C.L.E. Tokyo_**  
Napoleon Solo was studying the maps as he noted the latest information from the ground team. The sudden flare up of inclement weather was playing havoc with communications. From what he could ascertain so far, the team should just be reaching the high ridge north of where they believed the Thrush Satrap was located. Hopefully they should be able to get a nice overall view of everything.

As he waited for word from the team, he studied a peculiar transmission which had been intercepted and forwarded on to him. He’d sent a copy down to Section IV and on a hunch, sent a telex of the information on to New York as well. It was obviously important and —

“Napoleon!” Sammi Tsuchiyama, Lisa Rogers’ counterpart in the Tokyo branch, bowed politely as she immediately handed Napoleon the message she’d received.

Napoleon reading the message, paled slightly, but otherwise did not change expression. Looking hard at the brief note, he asked, “Has this been verified?”

Sammi nodded unhappily, “Yes, I’ve checked it twice.”

Frowning, Napoleon turned back to the papers spread about on the desk in front of him. Looking grim he made some notations on the large satellite map of the area. Glancing up at Sammi, he said abruptly, “Get Mr. Waverly on Channel D, scramble — apprise him of this latest information.”

After Sammi left, he stared blankly at the map, the message repeating itself endlessly in his head, _‘Plane crashed, survivors unknown.’_

 

**ACT II: The Abbot makes a change**

**_(Relocated) Thrush Eastern_ **

Illya had no idea how much time had elapsed. A quick inventory revealed that he was at least drier and still sore but nothing debilitating. His hands and feet were handcuffed behind him to something metal, probably the back of the chair in which he was seated. Carefully slitting open his eyes, he saw the others in the room didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to him. Good. Observing without being observed was practically a credo to him. 

Everyone seemed to be extraordinarily busy. Large computers lined one wall with technicians checking dials and making notations on their clipboards. The control room looked pretty much like the standard ‘Thrush Control room,’ a large area divided by thick glass to protect the delicate equipment and otherwise showcase the megalomaniac of the day. A cautious test of his restraints proved that he couldn’t free himself now — at least, not with an audience. He’d have to wait until he was alone.

A prickling along his neck warned him that someone had approached. Still feigning unconsciousness, Illya waited to learn more. It didn’t take long.

“You may as well open your eyes Mr. Kuryakin, we know you are conscious.” 

Illya remained still as he tried to identify the voice. It was decidedly familiar…

“ _Now_ , Mr. Kuryakin, if you please.” The voice was calm but had a deadly edge to it. A rustle of sound and the unmistakable click of a round being chambered forced Illya to open his eyes. No sense in provoking the enemy _too_ far.

“Very good.” 

Now that he was ‘awake’, Illya openly looked around. Harada could be seen clearly through the thick glass in another room. Standing before him, though, was a man wearing of all things, a flowing Buddhist robe. 

“Ah, Abbot Simon… or, perhaps you have another title now?” Illya stared pointedly at the unusual attire. “When I last saw you, you were wearing a monastery habit,” Illya’s voice, although mild, bordered on the sarcastic.

A slap from one of the outsized guards knocked Illya’s head sharply against the back of the chair. Cautiously shaking his head he could see the large hand preparing to strike again when a raised hand from ‘Abbot Simon’ stopped it.

In a cold tone, Simon spoke, “To satisfy your curiosity, I have always practiced the Buddhist beliefs. I merely wore the monastery garb to blend in with my surroundings during that last commission.”

Illya looked somewhat skeptical. “Really, Buddhism?” he murmured, “I thought those beliefs embraced the premise that all life is sacred. It seems somewhat at odds with —”

_SLAP!_

Although still quiet, Simon’s tone was somewhat defensive. “Seiichi and I were raised in that faith.”

Illya pretended to think a moment. “Oh, yes. You and Mr. Harada are brothers.” 

“ _Half_ brothers, yes. We are working together for the first time in far too many years. 

Illya seemed doubtful. “You are working together? I seem to recall two other Thrush brothers… Ah!” Illya feigned delight at finally remembering, “I believe it was Peter and Simon Sweet, who worked together on a project and —” Illya facetiously acted astonished, “They killed each other _and_ their mother. If I recall, she was a member of Thrush Central...” A note of satisfaction crept into his voice.

_SLAP!_

“Mr. Kuryakin! You try my patience. _We_ are nothing like those unfortunate siblings!” Forcing himself to calm down, he took another breath and said calmly, “Now, Mr. Kuryakin. I want you to tell me everything U.N.C.L.E. knows of this operation.”

Illya kept the smirk off his face. “Perish the thought. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal—”

_**SLAP!** _

That one _really_ hurt. 

The blows came fast and furious. At first Illya kept silent, not wanting his captors to know how much they were hurting him, but they kept coming until he couldn’t keep from crying out. 

Struggling to stay conscious, he was only vaguely aware that someone else had entered the room. 

“Simon, is it necessary to inflict all of this — this unnecessary pain?” Harada sounded distressed.

The beating stopped.

“My apologies, Seiichi, I often forget myself when engrossed in so important an undertaking.”

Harada executed a small bow. “Quite understandable Simon.”

Illya squeezed his eyes and blinked, trying to clear his head. The small movement brought the brothers’ attention back to him.

Harada’s broad smile reappeared as he looked at the subdued agent. “Perhaps we can make amends by explaining our little plan.”

Simon’s dour face lit up slightly. “An excellent idea,” He gestured sharply to the two largest guards, “Bring Kuryakin to our control center.” At his brother’s questioning look he added, “Handle him gently,” and giving a sharp look at Kuryakin, “but very carefully, if you please.” He gave the tiniest incline of his head to Illya and added, “We must take the proper precautions, I’m sure you understand.”

Illya gave a small nod of his own. “Of course.”

Once inside the control room, Illya was escorted to a central chair where he was (gently) forced to take a seat. The only restraints were ropes used to tie his hands together (in front Illya was relived to note). Overall not as bad as it could be (a thought Illya squelched immediately — no sense in bringing on more trouble.)

Harada became effusive. “You are comfortable I trust?” 

A brief flicker of astonishment flashed across Illya’s bland expression. _Who was this guy kidding?_

“Some tea perhaps?” Harada was playing the congenial host to the hilt.

Illya found his voice, “No. Thank you.” Firm but polite.

Simon moved over to an elaborate control panel and checked some readings before flipping on a switch. A spotlight lit up a large device on a dais in the center of the room which looked eerily like an Asimov science-fiction rendition of the bona fide over-the-top giant ray gun, all cathode tubes, flickering lights, coils — typical Thrush.

Illya’s eyes narrowed. This had to be the prototype U.N.C.L.E. was after! He forced himself to relax. If Thrush ran true to form, they would now begin to brag and explain their grandiose scheme in detail.

“You are no doubt wondering how far along our plans are on this, ah, device,” stated Harada right on cue.

Illya quirked an eyebrow.

Harada made a show of looking at the large row of clocks on the opposite wall. “In precisely ah, twelve hours and forty five minutes, we will be ready.”

Recognizing his own cue, Illya asked casually, “Ready for what exactly?”

“Why,” Simon stepped up to the device and stroked the top fondly, “to destroy U.N.C.L.E. headquarters of course. New York, London, Berlin, New Delhi, and Tokyo.”

Illya struggled to school his expression. Somewhat sarcastically he remarked, “Five cities at one time? I find that difficult to believe.”

Harada intervened. “That is the beauty of this, ah, new device.” He gave a knowing smile to his brother. “We can now program several destinations which fire consecutively in five second intervals. As you remember, these rays bend with the Earth’s gravitational field and since we can utilize Tel-Star, we are virtually unstoppable.” His congeniality vanished abruptly. “Honor will be served!” His eyes gleamed in anticipation.

Simon spoke up, “You will also recall your snide remark about my religious upbringing in which case you will be pleased to hear that only the U.N.C.L.E. strongholds will be destroyed. The surrounding buildings will hardly be shaken by the destruction, thus preserving many lives.”

Stalling for time and hoping to glean more information, Illya asked almost off-handedly, “How does it purport to work? I was unaware of any technology that can accomplish such things...”

**_Inside a cell..._ **

Illya Kuryakin opened one eye blearily (the other seemed to be having difficulties). Various pains reported themselves from the different parts of his body. _All business as usual when waking up in a Thrush cell._

His head and shoulder seemed to have a competition going on as to which was going to hurt more. And, it was hard to think clearly with the drum corps pounding away inside his head but—

_Wait! How did he get here?_

He struggled to focus. 

The last thing he could remember was sitting in the control room with the Haradas. They were starting to talk about their device, explaining their plans, and then... nothing?

Illya shook his head trying to clear it. 

_Bad_ mistake.

But, there was no mistake about his memory ending so abruptly inside the control room...

He looked around. From what he could see in the dim lighting, he was in a plain, unfurnished room with a cold, stone floor and an open doorway blocked by iron bars. A tiny window at the top let in some cool air. Painfully shifting to another position, Illya tried to sit up. To his surprise, _I must be hurt more than I thought since I've only just now noticed_ ; his hands were the only thing bound and that was only with rope. Using his teeth to begin loosening the rope, he took a quick inventory of his tools.

His gun (of course) and communicator were gone, as well as the more well-known arsenal he usually carried (spare gun in ankle holster, knife in his boot, money clip bomb, gas pellets and wristwatch). _Chyort!_ A further check showed some of the unusual hardware removed as well — garrote, lock-pick, homing device... 

It was a discouraging assessment, and he was so tired, aching with fatigue and pain...

_Since I can’t escape, I suppose I should probably sleep a bit. Just until someone comes in..._

Illya wriggled around a bit until, sitting against the wall facing the doorway, he lay his head on his raised knees and fell asleep.

**_BOOM_ **

With a start, Illya woke up, barely suppressing a sharp moan as he moved his shoulder incautiously. Listening carefully, he heard nothing further. Leaning back against the wall, he tried to figure out exactly what had caused that sound. It sounded like an explosion, not too near, maybe underground. As his fogged mind attempted to puzzle through this, his stomach suddenly rumbled informing him that he’d missed a meal — or more. He sagged, keenly aware of his parched throat from thirst.

He suddenly shook his head, trying to pull out of the lethargic stupor he found himself drifting back into. Blinking his eyes widely, trying to focus, Illya was becoming aware that not only was the room very cold, but that it was now morning. That is, if the small patch of grey sky he could just glimpse through the tiny window was any indication. The cold, though — shivering slightly, he could see his breath in the dim lighting. His eyes narrowed as a sudden thought occurred to him.

_Damn. Those are puncture marks tracked down my arm._

The indications were unmistakable. Now... how long had he been out? It could be an hour or two or even a day or more. He had no way of knowing. As he ran his tongue against dry, cracked lips the throbbing in his head escalated to a major pounding. The roiling wave of nausea from the headache left him in a cold sweat. Now shivering uncontrollably, he wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to keep warm.

Forcing his mind away from his immediate discomfort, Illya concentrated on the explosion that originally woke him. What could have caused it? _Think Illya!_ Maybe something went wrong. Illya grinned briefly at that delightful prospect. 

_But… no._ He regretfully tossed out that notion. That type of explosion would have destroyed half the mountain (and he wouldn’t be here worrying about it). So… what...? 

An unexpected thought came to mind. _What if the explosion were premeditated?_

He studied that idea for a moment. A defense to stop anyone from entering their stronghold? He sighed ruefully. If that were the case, he’d hear sounds of fighting, _something_. No, there had to be another explanation.

Another idea unexpectedly occurred to him.

_What if Thrush set the explosion to hide something —_ something about the device itself? What if their real purpose wasn’t to use the device as a weapon against the named targets directly, but rather to use it as some kind of lure... 

That _had_ to be it! 

Both Seiichi and Simon Harada had vowed their revenge against U.N.C.L.E. when they were stopped before. Besides, they never adequately explained the physics behind the current scheme. Heck, they never explained it at all — that’s why he’d been drugged!

He had to get out of here and warn —

Another wave of dizziness swept over him, causing him to slump back, suddenly exhausted from the pain and the drugs.

Standing wasn’t an option at this point, so he started to crawl over to the doorway. He had to get out—get to a shortwave... Fighting to stay conscious became a losing battle as he felt himself fading. 

As the darkness closed in, he thought, _Now would be a good time for Napoleon to show up..._

 

**ACT III: “I Need Your Report”**

**_Back at U.N.C.L.E. Tokyo_ **

Napoleon Solo found himself pacing — something he rarely did. It had been twelve hours since news of the plane crash had reached him. They’d only just reached the plane finding two badly burned bodies inside; it would take time to verify the dental records. Meanwhile a couple of men were checking where they’d spotted some parachutes. The relentless storm of driving rain mixed with sleet was severely hindering the ground team in their mission. Another body had been found about 100 yards from the crash site, parachute tangled in the trees — Mike Fisher’s.

He took a brief moment to mourn over the loss of these agents. Gerald had been a good man, a crack pilot and a fine agent, not to mention a friend. And who could help but enjoy Mike, a tall, gregarious man who’d give you his last dime — or beer. Napoleon refused to let himself to think about that other body...

“Napoleon?” Sammi Tsuchiyama interrupted his gloomy thoughts.

“What!” Solo’s voice was sharp, but instantly softened as he looked at Sammi’s anxious face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.” Napoleon’s apology sounded tired, “Any news?” he asked his tone carefully expressionless.

“The ground team found one of the agents still alive.” Loath to put out the light of hope that flashed in Napoleon’s eyes but knowing that the truth was kindest, Tsuchiyama spoke rapidly, “Kim Ito is being airlifted to Medical with an E.T.A. of twenty-two minutes. Preliminary diagnosis is a broken arm and exposure.”

“Did he say what happened?” asked Napoleon.

“He’s somewhat disoriented, but reported that he, Fisher, and one more, he wasn’t sure who — managed to bail out.” Her expression was strained. “He doesn’t know about Mike yet.” She knew Mike and Kim were close friends from when Mike had been attached to the Tokyo office.

Napoleon gave a short nod. Glancing at his watch, he gathered his briefcase and started for the door. “I’ll be down in Medical. If you hear anything, let me know immediately.”

 

Solo arrived just as Ito was brought in. A glance from the doctor promised Solo could see the patient soon. Finally what seemed like an eternity, the doctor stepped out of the room.

“Just a few minutes, please; I want to get him into surgery to set that arm.”

Solo nodded and strode inside. Kim Ito was laying on an infirmary bed, hooked up to an I.V. His arm was still in the field splint and he was pale with pain, but his eyes seemed alert.

“Mr. Ito, I need your report.”

Ito nodded slowly. Closing his eyes to help his concentration, he began, “The plane was attacked almost immediately as we flew over the area. Gerald kept it in the air as long as he could, but knew it was hopeless so he yelled for everyone to jump. Gil and Illya were up near the cockpit conferring with Gerald. The plane took another hit — one of them was shot and fell into the cockpit when the plane took another lurch. Mike jumped first. I was right behind him. As I was coming down, I could see another ‘chute open. Then I hit hard, breaking my arm against a sharp boulder. I must have also hit my head and lost consciousness for a bit since I never saw the plane come down. I-I saw the flames from the wreckage later...”

“What about the other parachute? Did you see where it came down?”

Ito concentrated for a moment. “Somewhere to the south of where I landed... maybe 1000 meters or so. I was still pretty groggy from the landing.”

Solo nodded. “I won’t keep you much longer. What about the Satrap?”

Ito grimaced in pain as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position. “There was one small communication burst... maybe an hour after the rain started. Some kind of jamming system kept me from hearing anything other than the fact that a signal was sent.” He hesitated a moment. “There was quite a bit of gunfire after that...” He paused for a moment remembering. “A while after that, I don’t know how long since I kept drifting in and out on consciousness by then, but it had to be pretty close to a day since it was daylight. Anyway, I heard another signal — _this_ was the one we agreed meant to destroy the satrap with everything we had.” He relaxed against the pillows. “I must have lost consciousness again since the next I knew it was getting dark again. Then the ground team found me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ito.” Solo smiled reassuringly, “I’ll send the doctor back in, get you fixed up.” 

As Napoleon turned to leave, Ito asked hesitantly, “What about Mike? Have you found him yet?”

Napoleon closed his eyes briefly. Opening them he faced Kim Ito squarely and said gently, “I’m sorry, Kim, he didn’t make it.”

He started for the door and paused, “The strike team was waiting for the word.” He smiled. “You’ve given it.”

 

Sammi Tsuchiyama greeted him with a telex in her hand. “This just came in. The test has definitely been moved up. Various known Thrush agents from several sectors have been spotted convening in the Mt. Tateyama area. Oh, and Yiro Ishimoto from the ground crew just arrived for debriefing. He’s in Conference Room Three.”

Napoleon absorbed the information, idly noting in the back of his mind that Sammi spoke English with no discernable accent.

“Thank you, Sammi, you’re a doll.” He got up and started to leave.

Sammi hesitated a moment, then touched Napoleon’s arm gently. “We’re worried as well.” She gave a watery smile. “Illya is well-liked and highly respected here.”

Napoleon gathered her hands warmly in his for a moment before he leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.” He shot his cuffs abruptly all business. “You said Conference Room Three, right?”

Sammi nodded.

 

“Mr. Ishimoto?” Napoleon greeted the small, innocuous Tokyo agent with a polite nod. Seeing the man’s battered appearance, he motioned for the man to sit down. “I won’t keep you long, you should have Medical take a look at you.”

The agent who had stood up at Napoleon’s entrance sank back into the chair gratefully.

“I understand you have information for me.” Napoleon got straight to the point.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Thrush will begin their testing at 2:00 P.M. local time, a little over three hours from now. They have five areas targeted for their demonstration—Tokyo and New York included.”

“I see.” Napoleon was thinking fast. “How close did you get to their headquarters?”

“Not as close as I wanted. The security is unbelievably tight.” 

Napoleon moved over to a map of the general area. “Where exactly is their new headquarters located?”

Ishimoto levered himself up and limped over to the map. Pointing to a spot on the north side of Mt. Tateyama, he said, “Right around here. It’s a fortress with no easy way to approach from below. Moving over from the other side could be a possibility, but the terrain is especially rough there and we wouldn’t have the necessary equipment even if we did have the time.”

“Any ideas about how we can set up a strike. We have to stop this quickly.” Napoleon was in full CEA mode now. His eyes narrowed, “What about an air approach?”

“The wind sheers are unpredictable at best — and in these weather conditions.... our helicopters are not strong enough.”

Napoleon thought for a moment. “What about the Air Force? Do they have anything that could negotiate the air pockets in that area?”

Yiro Ishimoto’s face lit up. “Hai! That could work! Kadina Air Base just got some of the new powerful Cobra Helicopters which have missile-firing capacity...”

Napoleon gave a sharp nod of agreement. Drawing out his communicator, he began to speak, “Open Channel D, overseas relay, Mr. Waverly, urgent!” 

 

Hovering high above the burning installation, Solo’s sharp eyes took in the smoking terrain. The destruction of Thrush Eastern appeared to be complete.

There were surprising few escapees. Solo guessed something to do with the massive destruction. The explosion had been larger than expected since it turned out the satrap had been booby-trapped from inside.

_Bee-BEEP—Bee-BEEP—Bee-BEEP!_

“Solo here,” answered Napoleon one-handed, still scanning the terrain through his binoculars.

“Mr. Solo, your report please,” Waverly’s voice was calm and expectant.

“It looks like everything’s destroyed, Sir. The ‘birds’ who escaped are in custody and on their way to Tokyo Headquarters. There were only a few.” He swallowed hard remembering that the ‘unidentified’ agent was probably still inside. His voice carefully unemotional, he added, “The others are no doubt dead.”

“I see... Well, it couldn’t be helped. That infernal device has caused innumerable loss to this organization.” Waverly’s sigh could be clearly heard over the communicator. “I’d like you to return to headquarters at once.”

“Sir, I... I’d like to stay and oversee things from here.” Looking over at the pilot who gave a ‘thumbs up’, he added, “The pilot says he can land pretty close to the site.”

There was a drawn-out silence. “Very well, Mr. Solo, report to me when you get back.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Solo closed his communicator and tucked it securely inside his jacket pocket before nodding to the pilot that he was ready to land.

They’d barely touched down when Napoleon had unbuckled his seat belt and was ducking down under the helicopter’s still-spinning blades.

“Anything?” Solo shouted to be heard above the helicopter and vehicles which had converged near the destroyed Thrush stronghold.

“No, Mr. Solo. We’re still checking the surrounding woods and things, of course, but everything inside is, uh, gone, sir.” 

Solo nodded shortly. “Which grids still need to be checked?”

The Section III agent checked his clipboard before motioning to the south. “That’s the last section, sir. It’s some of the rougher terrain but we’d like to at least get a preliminary check before dark. After dark, sir, it’ll be impossible.”

Solo took a few steps in the general direction to get a closer look. “I see what you mean. Is it all like that?”

“Pretty much.”

Napoleon unfastened his cuffs and started rolling up his sleeves. “Can you use some help?”

 

Napoleon didn’t know how much time had actually elapsed since he started on the ground search—only that it seemed an eternity. Despair continually lurked in the back of his mind. 

Preliminary findings showed the Satrap to have been staffed with only a handful of personnel and among those a conspicuous absence of high-ranking Thrush officials. Even the equipment was a sham. Fancy lights, bells, whistles — what have you — were all window dressing; fake. 

_ow many of their own had suffered and died for this elaborate hoax? The costs were just too high…_

Giving himself a mental shake, Napoleon continued his walk… well, really more of a scuttling, through his grid section. The mud from the recent rain made the undertaking almost impossible. Bone tired, he forced himself to continue and be done with this affair.

It was getting dark. Weary, cold, discouraged, Napoleon was about to climb back up the steep embankment and call it a night when he suddenly had a sense of being watched… Turning around sharply, he carefully scanned the rough mountainside. Nothing… no, _wait_ … a flash of something… There!

Scrambling crab-like over the loose mud and shale, Napoleon edged over to where he had seen the bright reflected object between two large boulders with sparse shrubbery draped over them. Crouching by a handy crag for cover, he cautiously peered around to look directly into a pair of barely conscious blue eyes…

_It was Illya! Illya was alive!_

Fatigue vanished instantly with his elation at finding his friend alive! Assessing for injuries he saw that Illya looked a mess. Filthy with caked-on mud he had scratches and streaks of dried blood showing through his torn clothing and was shivering from the cold. _He looked beautiful!_ Giving a quick squeeze of assurance, he hastily opened his communicator and practically shouted for assistance.

Receiving acknowledgement, Napoleon immediately pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around his chilled partner. Moving to a sitting position, he scooted over until they were touching and wrapped his arms carefully around Illya to give additional warmth.

“N-Napoleon?” Illya’s voice was weak.

“Easy, Tovarisch, I’ve got you,” soothed Napoleon.

“Must...stop...it. Device...is — is a fake,” whispered Illya.

“We know,” replied Napoleon grimly. At Illya’s questioning look he added, “Some of the reports that came in seemed a little ‘off’ somehow. As Section IV began breaking some of the codes, it became obvious that we had to be dealing with a fake.” 

He glanced worriedly up at the sky, muttering under his breath, _“Damnit, where is that helicopter?”_

As if they heard, a large U.N.C.L.E. helicopter flew over, hovering as it selected the best place to land. Napoleon automatically sheltered Illya’s face from the dust and debris whipped up from the rotors. As soon as it touched down, two men emerged from the chopper with a stretcher...

 

**ACT IV: It’s All Done With Mirrors**

“— so, that’s it?” asked Napoleon as he wound up the debriefing. Despite the torture and his treacherous escape, Illya was in surprisingly good shape An overnight stay in Medical would take care of his dehydration and his shoulder injury, although sore, wasn’t serious. He didn’t even catch cold!

Illya shook his head slowly in grudging admiration for Thrush’s ploy. “I must admit it was rather clever of them to handle it that way. The drugs kept me disoriented while under their influence... ” his voice trailed off, “It certainly kept me from examining their spurious equipment too closely. Hopefully,” he added doubtfully, “there was enough left to analyze from the blood Medical took from me.” 

Illya scowled at the tray of dull ‘hospital’ food. Slightly peeved, he muttered, “You would think that Medical would at least _try_ to get their patients better by feeding them palatable food instead of this stuff!” He stared at the jell-o for a moment before resigning himself to the inevitable and raising the cover from the ‘hot’ dish. He sniffed at the food cautiously before finally beginning to eat. 

Napoleon sat watching his friend slowly relax and decided he needed his rest, too. Stretching to work out some kinks, he stood up. “I have to report to Waverly first, and then I’m off for a hot shower and bed.”

Illya looked up from his meal. Looking pointedly at Napoleon’s disheveled appearance; he said deadpan, “The Japanese understand plumbing. There should be enough hot water and drainage — even for you.”

Napoleon glared as he shot his cuffs (filthy though they were) and started for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, my friend. Uh, don’t give the staff _too_ hard of a time.” He ducked out quickly before Illya’s glare could burn through.

 

“Yes, Sir, at first light the Tokyo office is sending an additional team out to go over the area and make sure nothing’s been missed. There’s a construction crew on the way with some heavy bulldozers to smooth over the site. They should get there by early afternoon,” reported Solo.

“I see.” Waverly’s sigh could be plainly heard through the console, “I don’t expect we will learn anything further.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Sir” said Solo flatly.

“The Haradas — have you learned anything further on their whereabouts?” Waverly asked.

“Nothing, Sir,” Solo was disgusted. “We’re still checking, but it’s as if they’ve vanished into thin air.”

“I see. Well, it seems you have your work cut out for you,” remarked Waverly.

Napoleon grimaced, and then hastily schooled his expression even though Waverly really couldn’t see him through the communication console. “Illya gave me a pretty good description of the setup. Unfortunately, after he was drugged and taken out of there, he never saw what happened to them,” he paused before adding grimly, “He was lucky to have gotten out at all.”

“Most fortuitous, indeed, Mr. Solo.” 

Napoleon heard a match striking and could easily picture Mr. Waverly lighting his pipe.

“How is Mr. Kuryakin by the way?” asked Waverly.

_Surely that was the sound of him smoking his pipe—that tiny sucking of air through the pipe stem._

“Ah,” Napoleon quickly focused back on the matter at hand, “he was somewhat dehydrated so they’re keeping him overnight for observation and to restore fluids. The doctor assures me it’s just a precaution.”

“Excellent.”

“By the way, I have Miss Tsuchiyama checking through the communication logs to try and track down the origin of those tips we received. There’s something very strange about that...” Napoleon said thoughtfully.

“Yes, I quite agree. You’ll see to it, Mr. Solo, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. Solo, out.”

Once closing communications, Napoleon sat in a kind of stupor. His weariness hung over him like a shroud. 

_A shroud… for all the lives which were lost because of a damned hoax! He snorted. It was all done with mirrors — Thrush style._

He silently bereted himself; to give in to this defeat would allow Thrush to win. _Well, they may have won this round, but as to the war…_ He gave himself a mental shake. _And, Illya was alive._ Selfishly, Napoleon allowed the wave of relief to sweep through him. 

Finally arriving at his assigned sleeping quarters Napoleon looked over his accommodations and realized he’d been placed in the Executive Suite. Stripping off his filthy clothing his weariness began to fade as he stepped into the richly-appointed bathroom. Turning on the shower, he looked inside the drawer next to the sink where he found a fresh disposable razor still in the package. Amid the rising clouds of steam he began to shave.

The shower was hot and relaxing. As he scrubbed off the offending dirt with the jasmine-scented soap, he could feel the tension from the last twenty-four hours begin to lift. Massaging his scalp with the rich shampoo helped to finally chase away the headache he’d been nursing over that same twenty-four hours. Finishing up with a couple of warm, fluffy towels, he drew on the soft, thick robe to complete the ‘treatment’. The bed with its rich brocade covers and plump pillows drew him. _A good night’s sleep sounded wonderfully decadent._

Near the bed he found an assortment of tiny, airline-sized bottles of liquor next to a hotplate and the accouterments for making tea. _Hmm, a nightcap would be nice..._

As his hand hovered over the bottles trying to decide, he abruptly changed his mind. Sitting on the bed which was as comfortable and welcoming as it appeared—sleep sounded better than anything else right now. His eye caught sight of the bottles again as he turned out the light. He shrugged mentally. _They’re cheap brands anyway..._

 

He was dreaming about his frantic search. The slippery mountainside became steeper and more impossibly treacherous with every step. Sliding downward he could hear a claxon blasting in time with each horrific step —

_Wait! This was real. Headquarters was under attack!_

Hastily throwing on his robe, he activated his communicator. “This is Solo. What’s the situation?”

“Mr. Solo, we have four intruders — two came through the underground garage and the other two broke in through reception. Security has one in custody — maybe two. The others are somewhere on the third level.”

A sudden dread swept over him—Third level was _Medical!_ Suddenly positive he knew the target, he ordered, “Direct a security team to Medical at once! I’m going there now.”

Grabbing his Special from the nightstand he padded barefoot for the door where he opened it a crack. Peeking outside he could see the corridor was empty. Rushing out he sprinted toward Medical where he paused to quickly assess the situation.

Hearing nothing from inside, Solo was about to enter when he caught a slight movement from the corner of his eye. Spinning around, preparing to drop and roll away if need be he froze as he recognized the small figure. Relaxing slightly, he motioned her forward.

“Sammi,” he hissed, “what are you doing down here?”

Sammi Tsuchiyama was staring wide-eyed at Napoleon, clearly frightened as she gave a nervous smile, “I-I couldn’t reach you in your room and needed to get this information to you right away,” she whispered. Her eyes darted up and down the empty corridor.

Napoleon motioned her behind him. “Okay, what do you have for me?” he asked gently as he kept watch in the corridor.

“This, Napoleon,” Tsuchiyama’s voice rang with authority.

Napoleon turned back to look at her in surprise. Aimed directly at his heart, Tsuchiyama held a small, but very lethal pistol with a steady hand. Not moving, he remarked almost conversationally, “So, you’re the one who coordinated things from inside. Just how long have you been with Thrush?”

“I would strongly suggest you set your weapon down on the floor, Mr. Solo,” Tsuchiyama said calmly, “I will not hesitate to use this.”

“Ah and when we meant so much to each other,” Solo said mockingly as he dangled his Special loosely from one finger.

“I _said_ on the _floor_ ,” a hint of threat crept into Tsuchiyama’s voice.

Carefully shifting to a more comfortable position Solo asked, “Why? Was it money? It shouldn’t be power since you hold a pretty important position here.” Seeing her knuckle whiten on her trigger finger, he stopped and with exaggerated care, placed his weapon smoothly on the steel floor. As he stood up he could see Tsuchiyama relax slightly. Napoleon coaxed, “Come on, Sammi, give up. We can still fix this.”

With a short laugh, Sammi tossed her head, her chin-length hair falling neatly back into place, “I do not _need_ to have anything fixed. The destruction of U.N.C.L.E. will fulfill my plans quite nicely.”

Napoleon looked sadly into Sammi’s hate-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, Sammi,” he said softly.

In that instant he threw himself to one side as the door behind Tsuchiyama opened. Illya instantly had a choke hold on Sammi while he grabbed her wrist tightly, forcing her to drop the gun with a cry of pain. Napoleon picked up his gun before kicking hers out of reach across the empty corridor.

“Nice timing,” remarked Napoleon as he straightened his robe around him, carefully masking concern over his partner’s ragged appearance. Illya’s arm was bleeding freely from where he had pulled out the I.V. and his pajama top was ripped open, the buttons torn off from an obvious struggle. Peering into the room beyond, Napoleon could see two men lying on the floor, both trussed up firmly with hospital gauze, tape and even the tubing from Illya’s I.V. Both were blindfolded as well.

“You couldn’t take a moment to bandage yourself, too?” quipped Napoleon.

Illya rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you would have appreciated the delay before I rescued you,” he snorted.

“Point taken,” conceded Napoleon. Looking back into the room, he asked, “The Haradas I presume?”

“Yes. I think Simon Harada is dead.” he shrugged, “He was attempting to inject something into the I.V. and when I pulled it out, he became somewhat violent. I may have hit him too hard.” 

Tugging Tsuchiyama roughly into the room, he added, “Seiichi Harada should be able to be interrogated once the tranquilizer wears off.” Narrowing his eyes as he looked at the once-trusted Sammi, he said coldly as he handed her off to the arriving Section III security agents, “I will be very interested in what Miss Tsuchiyama can add to this.”

“I’m rather curious about her surprise at finding me here. With headquarters under attack it would follow that I would be part of the defenses,” Napoleon pondered thoughtfully, “I rather suspect that some kind of poison will be found in those airline bottles in my suite.”

Illya raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Airline bottles?”

“Yes. I didn’t catch it at the time, but any alcohol U.N.C.L.E. would provide in the guest suites would be from a regular decanter — and that only after ascertaining which alcohol of choice said guest would prefer. It certainly wouldn’t be cheap brands in airline bottles.” He squared his shoulders, “Better order up some coffee...” Napoleon sighed, “It’s going to be a long night.” 

 

“It turns out that Sammi Tsuchiyama was the Haradas’ niece. Apparently there was another Harada—a sister who married a Naoki Tsuchiyama. They immigrated to San Francisco shortly before the bombing of Pearl Harbor,” Napoleon read the dossier with some regret, “Anyway, their property was confiscated and they were forced into one of the internment camps. Her father died a year later. After the war, Sammi and her mother returned to Japan.” 

“Those Japanese American internment camps were an atrocity,” mused Illya, “but still no excuse for what she did. What’s going to happen to her?”

“I imagine she’ll be detrained and placed in some kind of prison,” said Napoleon, “Such a waste.”

“She chose her own path, Napoleon,” said Illya softly, “No one forced her.”

Napoleon was silent as he continued working on his part of the report.

After a few minutes Illya asked, “What name was finally given to this affair?” Illya sat, fingers poised over the typewriter.

“ _The Diabolical Device Affair_ ,” answered Napoleon.

A few rapid keystrokes later, Illya was pulling the sheet of paper out of the typewriter platen. “There,” he said his voice full of satisfaction.

“Done already?” asked Napoleon surprised. (He was still going over the reports submitted by the surviving team members as well as adding some of his own personal notes for the final report.)

Illya smirked. “It wasn’t too difficult seeing as it was all one big hoax. The fake device _and_ the satrap were completely destroyed. Simon Harada was killed during the attack and Seiichi Harada committed suicide while in custody. Both are dead terminating any future plans.” He glanced over his report, checking for errors. “There. All finished!”

 

**EPILOGUE**

**_In Tokyo_ **

As he waited on the busy street with its colorful patrons moving down the crowded sidewalks, Illya thought about Napoleon’s suggestion.

_“Say, Illya, as long as we’re here, why don’t we go to that geisha house… You know the one we were at before when we were looking for Sandy? Um, well, you know we couldn’t really enjoy the, ah, full scope of everything with Sandy present…”_

Illya had raised an eyebrow and allowed the silence to linger a bit before giving a tiny, lopsided grin. Napoleon might be a man of the world, but he still had no idea about the genuine geisha experience…

He glanced at his watch. It was getting late and Napoleon should have been here by now. Illya was beginning to get worried. Napoleon was always prompt — and he would have let Illya know if he were going to be late — unless he’d been delayed by Mr. Waverly (unlikely since they were on vacation) or…

Fortunately he didn’t have to dwell on the ‘or’ part since he finally spotted Napoleon hurrying along the crowded boulevard. Spotting Illya, his face lit up in a warm smile. As he came within earshot, he murmured, “Before you say anything, yes I got lost.”

At Illya’s barely-hidden smirk, he added a trifle defensively, “It’s changed some since the last time we were here, okay?”

“Did I say anything?” asked Illya innocently.

“You didn’t have to,” muttered Napoleon under his breath.

Glancing up at the small sign in decorative Japanese calligraphy identifying the otherwise non-descript building, Napoleon followed Illya inside.

Once inside, they removed their shoes as they were greeted warmly by two delicately beautiful Japanese girls, dressed in traditional kimonos.

“Shall we begin with tea?” The geisha who had come in behind the two other girls asked, before giving them a hard look, “Hey, wait a minute... I know you. You’re the two men who were here before, looking for Sandy—you’re her friends!”

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other a moment in puzzlement before looking back and saying at the same time, “Reikko!”

Napoleon smiled charmingly. “You’ve changed your hair and something else…” His eyes drifted to the huge ring on her finger, a five-caret heart-shaped diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds; in a platinum setting, if he wasn’t mistaken. 

Seeing his eye focused on the ring, Reikko smiled broadly. “Oh, I’m engaged. I will be ‘retiring’ from the geisha in a couple of weeks and next month I’m flying out to the United States — Texas — to get married.”

After the murmured congratulations, she gave them a thoughtful look. “Now, what is it I can do for you?” She smiled enigmatically when she realized why they were _really_ there.

 

“Napoleon,” Illya explained patiently, “the best geisha is also the most discerning, and completely discreet.”

“Okay... but—?” Taking a deep breath Napoleon recovered quickly and gave Illya a searching look, “Illya, are you _sure_?”

Illya’s face was completely devoid of expression, although a wicked twinkle could be seen in his eye. “Of course,” Illya’s tone was absolutely confident, “Napoleon, it is obvious that she picked up on what we really need, so...” He waited quietly while Napoleon absorbed that information.

“I see.” Napoleon waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “And you’re sure?”

Illya answered firmly, “Yes, I am quite sure.”

After a short pause Napoleon casually, “Well, I suppose...” Looking around the comfortable room, he added in a slow, almost seductive tone, “This is, after all, an intimate setting...” He raised his cup of fortified tea in silent salute to his friend. “So, you really want to hear my college stories… like the time I threw the javelin?” Napoleon asked sweetly.

Illya batted his eyelashes and allowed his ghost of a smile to appear. “Of course, I _always_ want to hear your stories.”

Napoleon suddenly gave a boyish grin and leaned back against the colorful cushions.

“I did quite a few things in college as I’m sure you did…” Napoleon’s voice was animated.

“Mmm, yes… when I was in the Sorbonne especially…” Illya smiled as he too, got comfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> I know everyone placed the episode references; however, for those who may be newer to the genre, here is a list of the referenced episodes:  
> The Cherry Blossom Affair  
> The Monks of St. Thomas Affair  
> The Five Daughters Affair  
> The Hula Doll Affair  
> The Take Me to Your Leader Affair  
> The Summit Five Affair


End file.
